You left,
And I was seven blues,
Remote as December morning’s moon,
A fading “O” opaque as breath
You left with my last laugh dangling in your hand,
Like some remnant ripped
From November afternoon,
Then torn in two
And I recall last June, at noon
When flowers bloomed from our hello’s
And then reseeded
And there were gardens of metaphors
(I won’t get into that)
Receded
But I was your September tie-died sky,
And you, this glorious golden spitball of a sun
That landed, s!plat!
And slid down my horizon
Till I can barely see you still from Yesterday
You left that way.
some great lines here.
best, michael
And I was seven blues," Only one so delicate and tender-hearted can express in such words...
Love to you, and the Merriest of Christmases!
Tell that daughter of mine shame on her for not visiting her mama for Christmas, and give her a hug for us too...
Crys...
Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen